lusion to the cause that led to his
kicking up the dust in front of her gate. It would give her husband, her
daughter and herself great pleasure to have him come, and it was hoped
that he would not disappoint them. The boy had not waited for an answer.
The courtesy fell as an obligation. There was no easy way to dodge it.
He would go.

The afternoon was long. Mitchell rigged himself in his best, bought of a
peddler after much haggling, and went forth to woo the freckled woman.
Milford strolled out into the woods. It was a pleasure to stand in the
mist, the trees shadowy about him. It was dreamy to fancy the fog a torn
fragment of night, floating through the day. It was easy to imagine the
lake a boundless sea. Over the rushes a loon flew, a gaunt and feathered
loneliness, looking for a place to light. Milford strolled along a
pathway, over high ground, once the brow of the receding lake; and here
the growth was heavy, with great trees leaning toward the marsh and
hawthorn thickets standing in rounded groups. He came to an open space.
In the midst of it stood a sapling. A grape vine had spread over its
branches, neatly trimming its outer edges, a hoisted umbrella of leaves.
He stopped short. On a boulder beneath this canopy, with her back toward
him, almost hidden, sat a woman. She was wrapped in a cloak. But there
was no mistaking her hair. She heard his footstep and looked round. She
did not appear much surprised. She arose with a smile.

"I have been sitting here in Norway," she said. "See the cliffs?" she
added, pointing to a mountain range of mist.

"But you must have got wet."

"No. But it would make no difference. I do not mind it. I love such a
day. It is an etching. Do you go this way? I have stayed long enough."

She walked along the path in front of him, bending to avoid the low
boughs, laughing when a wet leaf slapped her cheek.

"Let me go in front to clear the way," he said.

"Oh, no, I like this."

She leaped across a gulley. A briar pulled at her skirts. She turned
about with the merest tint of a blush. He was not enough of an idealist
to etherealize her. He felt her spirit, but acknowledged her a flesh and
blood woman, belonging to the earth, but as the flower does, with a
perfume. Her lips bespoke passion; her eyes control. He was glad that he
saw her so clearly.

"We shall soon be to the road," she said.

"And you mean that you will leave me there as you did the other night?"

"You are qui